What if he didn't come back? That was the thought I had been trying to suppress, ever since they took him away. If he was unable to clear himself of the charge? If the magistrate was one of those suspicious of foreigners—well, more suspicious than usual, I amended—he could easily be imprisoned indefinitely. And above and beyond the fear that this unlooked- for crisis could undo all the careful work of the last weeks, was the image of Jamie in a cell like the one where I had found him at Wentworth. In light of the present crisis, the news that Charles Stuart was investing in wine seemed trivial.
Left alone, I now had plenty of time to think, but my thoughts didn't seem to be getting me anywhere. Who or what was "La Dame Blanche"? What sort of "white lady," and why had the mention of that name made the attackers run off?
Thinking back over the subsequent events of the dinner party, I remembered the General's remarks about the criminal gangs that roamed the streets of Paris, and how some of them included members of the nobility. That was consistent with the speech and the dress of the leader of the men who had attacked me and Mary, though his companions seemed a good deal rougher in aspect. I tried to think whether the man reminded me of anyone I knew, but the memory of him was indistinct, clouded by darkness and the receding haze of shock.
In general form, he had been not unlike the Comte St. Germain, though surely the voice was different. But then, if the Comte was involved, surely he would take pains to disguise his voice as well as his face? At the same time, I found it almost impossible to believe that the Comte could have taken part in such an attack, and then sat calmly across the table from me two hours later, sipping soup.
I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. There was nothing that could be done before morning. If morning came, and Jamie didn't, then I could begin to make the rounds of acquaintances and presumed friends, one of whom might have news or help to offer. But for the hours of the night, I was helpless; powerless to move as a dragonfly in amber.
My fingers jammed against one of the decorated hairpins, and I yanked at it impatiently. Tangled in my hair, it stuck.
"Ouch!"
"Here, milady. I'll get it."
I hadn't heard him pass behind me, but I felt Fergus's small, clever fingers in my hair, disentangling the tiny ornament. He laid it aside, then, hesitating, said, "The others, milady?"
"Oh, thank you, Fergus," I said, grateful. "If you wouldn't mind."
His pickpocket's touch was light and sure, and the thick locks began to fall around my face, released from their moorings. Little by little, my breathing slowed as my hair came down.
"You are worried, milady?" said the small, soft voice behind me.
"Yes," I said, too tired to keep up a false bravado.
"Me, too," he said simply.
The last of the hairpins clinked on the table, and I slumped in the chair, eyes closed. Then I felt a touch again, and realized that he was brushing my hair, gently combing out the tangles.
"You permit, milady?" he said, feeling it as I tensed in surprise. "The ladies used to say it helped them, if they were feeling worried or upset."
I relaxed again under the soothing touch.
"I permit," I said. "Thank you." After a moment, I said, "What ladies, Fergus?"
There was a momentary hesitation, as of a spider disturbed in the building of a web, and then the delicate ordering of strands resumed.
"At the place where I used to sleep, milady. I couldn't come out because of the customers, but Madame Elise would let me sleep in a closet under the stairs, if I was quiet. And after all the men had gone, near morning, then I would come out and sometimes the ladies would share their breakfast with me. I would help them with the fastening of their underthings—they said I had the best touch of anyone," he added, with some pride, "and I would comb their hair, if they liked."
"Mm." The soft whisper of the brush through my hair was hypnotic. Without the clock on the mantel, there was no telling time, but the silence of the street outside meant it was very late indeed.
"How did you come to sleep at Madame Elise's, Fergus?" I asked, barely suppressing a yawn.
"I was born there, milady," he answered. The strokes of the brush grew slower, and his voice was growing drowsy. "I used to wonder which of the ladies was my mother, but I never found out."
The opening of the sitting-room door woke me. Jamie stood there, red-eyed and white-faced with fatigue, but smiling in the first gray light of the day.
"I was afraid you weren't coming back," I said, a moment later, into the top of his head. His hair had the faint acrid scent of stale smoke and tallow, and his coat had completed its descent into total disreputability, but he was warm and solid, and I wasn't disposed to be critical about the smell of the head I was cradling next my bosom.
"So was I," he said, somewhat muffled, and I could feel his smile. The arms around my waist tightened and released, and he sat back, smoothing my hair out of my eyes.
"God, you are so beautiful," he said softly. "Unkempt and unslept, wi' the waves of your hair all about your face. Bonny love. Have ye sat here all night long, then?"
"I wasn't the only one." I motioned toward the floor, where Fergus lay curled up on the carpet, head on a cushion by my feet. He shifted slightly in his sleep, mouth open a bit, soft pink and full-lipped as the baby he so nearly was.
Jamie laid a big hand gently on his shoulder.
"Come on, then, laddie. Ye've done well to guard your mistress." He scooped the boy up and laid him against his shoulder, mumbling and sleepy-eyed. "You're a good man, Fergus, and ye've earned your rest. Come on to your bed." I saw Fergus's eyes flare wide in surprise, then half-close as he relaxed, nodding in Jamie's arms.
I had opened the shutters and rekindled the fire by the time Jamie returned to the sitting room. He had shed his ruined coat, but still wore the rest of last night's finery.
"Here." I handed him a glass of wine, and he drank it standing, in three gulps, shuddered, then collapsed onto the small sofa, and held out the cup for more.
"Not a drop," I said, "until you tell me what's going on. You aren't in prison, so I assume everything's all right, but—"
"Not all right, Sassenach," he interrupted, "but it could be worse."
After a great deal of argument to and fro—a good deal of it Mr. Hawkins's reiterations of his original impressions—the judge-magistrate who had been hustled out of his cozy bed to preside over this impromptu investigation had ruled grumpily that since Alex Randall was one of the accused, he could hardly be considered an impartial witness. Nor could I, as the wife and possible accomplice of the other accused. Murtagh had been, by his own testimony, insensible during the alleged attack, and the child Claudel was not legally capable of bearing witness.
Clearly, Monsieur le Juge had said, aiming a vicious glare at the Guard Captain, the only person capable of providing the truth of the matter was Mary Hawkins, who was by all accounts incapable of doing so at the present time. Therefore, all the accused should be locked up in the Bastille until such time as Mademoiselle Hawkins could be interviewed, and surely Monsieur le Capitaine should have been able to think that out for himself?
"Then why aren't you locked up in the Bastille?" I asked.
"Monsieur Duverney the elder offered security for me," Jamie replied, pulling me down onto the sofa beside him. "He sat rolled up in the corner like a hedgehog, all through the clishmaclaver. Then when the judge made his decision, he stood up and said that, having had the opportunity to play chess with me on several occasions, he didna feel that I was of a moral character so dissolute as to permit of my having conspired in the commission of an act so depraved—" He broke off and shrugged.
"Well, ye ken what he talks like, once he's got going. The general idea was that a man who could take him at chess six times in seven wouldna lure innocent young lasses to his house to be defiled."
"Very logical," I said dryly. "I imagine what he really meant was, if they locked you up, you wouldn't be able to play with him anymore."
"I expect so," he agreed. He stretched, yawned, and blinked at me, smiling.
"But I'm home, and right now, I don't greatly care why. Come here to me, Sassenach." Grasping my waist with both hands, he boosted me onto his lap, wrapped his arms around me, and sighed with pleasure.
"All I want to do," he murmured in my ear, "is to shed these filthy clouts, and lie wi' you on the hearthrug, go to sleep straight after, with my head on your shoulder, and stay that way 'til tomorrow."
"Rather an inconvenience to the servants," I remarked. "They'll have to sweep round us."
"Damn the servants," he said comfortably. "What are doors for?"
"To be knocked on, evidently," I said as a soft rap sounded outside.
Jamie paused a moment, nose buried in my hair, then sighed, and raised his head, sliding me off his lap onto the sofa.
"Thirty seconds," he promised me in an undertone, then said, "Entrez!" in a louder voice.
The door swung open and Murtagh stepped into the room. I had rather overlooked Murtagh in the bustles and confusion of the night before, and now thought to myself that his appearance had not been improved by neglect.